Early Years
by Karama9
Summary: A set of four stories featuring the future Storm Shadow and Snake Eyes before and during the War. Fourth and last story now up.
1. Chapter 1

More former bonuses, but these are, like the Clan War story, set before the beginning of Arashikage.

Just to clarify, I decided at one point that I needed Snake Eyes and Storm Shadow to have gone through basic training together, although they wouldn't actually become friends until they were in the War, after said basic training. That decision spawned a couple of plot bunnies.

There are four mini-stories in this grouping: the first two are set almost right after one another in basic training, while the last two are set in the War.

* * *

**Story 1: Hand-to-hand, from the point of view of He Who Will Eventually Be Known as Snake Eyes**

My eyebrows shoot up when the instructor issues the instruction for this, our first hand-to-hand session, scheduled a day earlier than anticipated in lieu of another team spirit exercise.

I glance at Tommy and as expected, his eyes are a bit wide too. I'm expecting a smile to creep up, but instead, he clenches his jaw in concentration.

Smith, one of the other trainees and, in my humble opinion, the one who should be running away the fastest right now, raises his hand, a cocky grin on his face.

"Sir?" he asks. "Just how no-holds-barred are we talking about here? I mean, what if someone ends up in the infirmary?"

The instructor snorts.

"I'm pretty sure you won't hurt anyone, kid," he snickers.

Smith, being clueless even by his standards, doesn't get the hint.

"But Sir," he insists, "a no-holds-barred brawl between all of us… I'm pretty strong. I just don't want to end up in trouble for hurting someone. But I don't want you to think I'm not trying hard enough, either."

As if to confirm he really is that stupid, he smirks at Tommy, who pointedly ignores him.

The other guys follow Smith's example and at the instructor's signal, basically form a rough circle around Tommy.

I make my way in the circle, then inside it to stand by his side. I don't know him enough to like him or dislike him, and I'm just as jealous as the other guys about the fact he's breezed through Hell Week as if it was a freakin' vacation, but I'm not stupid enough to try and take him on.

Honestly. The discipline we've all been put through didn't phase him at all, he doesn't even break a sweat in our PT sessions, and the guys can't pretend not to have noticed he's a total health nut – they've been teasing him since day one for not touching anything remotely resembling junk food, including anything with caffeine; they also can't pretend they didn't notice his body – he's literally chiseled – because they've been jealous about THAT, too, especially since the girls have noticed as well, leading to Tommy getting most of their attention. It could not be plainer that in Tommy's case, concluding the relatively short Japanese guy is actually a lethal martial artist is not racial stereotyping, it's an obvious deduction.

Tommy glances at me, his expression unreadable.

"I'm NOT taking you on," I explain.

He shrugs just as Johnson, the biggest of the guys, rushes him. Tommy grabs one of his arms and tosses him aside, knocking down Brown, who was coming at him from the side. Tommy's eyes are narrowed in concentration as he takes down Smith next, using him as a projectile to trip Brown. Churchill comes after me and I send him to the floor with a kick in the gut. Tommy pushes him with his foot just in time to make Abraham trip on him.

The guys get up as soon as they're down and come at us again, this time trying to attack all angles at once. No longer having the luxury of tossing them at each other, Tommy changes tactics and starts dodging and actually hitting them. I'm doing the same, if not nearly as effectively as he is, and within little more than a minute, they're all groaning on the floor and the instructor steps up.

"Got some more tension to release, kid?" he asks Tommy. "Want to show off a bit more?"

"No and no, Sir," Tommy replies flatly.

"You were just lucky," Smith growls, getting up. "I want to take him on one-on-one, Sir," he adds, addressing the instructor.

Tommy sighs and suddenly, I realize why he hasn't smiled through this whole thing: I thought he'd enjoy having an excuse to beat up the guys a bit, get back to them for all the taunting they've been doing and gain their respect at the same time, but in reality, he's just stuck having to hold back. If he actually let loose, and it looks like he's sorely tempted to, he'd send them all to the hospital.

I look more closely as the instructor nods and Smith starts circling Tommy who doesn't move, not even following him with his eyes. Smith attacks from behind, and Tommy ducks under the punch, seems to slide sideway, and elbows him in the chin. Because I'm paying attention, I notice that it would have been easier to hit Smith's throat and that the blow is pulled at the last second so as not to break any teeth or dislocate Smith's jaw.

Johnson jumps on Tommy then, or rather, jumps towards him: Tommy's foot connects with his chest, bouncing him back the way he came. Again, the blow is pulled just in time, yet Johnson goes down gasping for air, massaging his chest.

"Stop," the instructor calls.

Smith, who was about to try surprising Tommy again, stops dead in his tracks. He looks more relieved than disappointed.

"You, attack me," the instructor says, addressing Tommy. "Do your best to pin me down, as quickly as you can."

Tommy frowns, obviously displeased by the request. Apparently, he wasn't kidding when he said he didn't want to show off. I do wonder why… I can understand modesty, but he doesn't seem the type at all.

"That's an order," the instructor insists. "You WILL charge me and you WILL do it as well as you can. I want to see your true potential."

"Yes, Sir," Tommy says. He runs to him, grabs a leg that was attempting to kick him, spins it, and faster than I can follow, the instructor ends up on the floor with Tommy on his back, the instructor's head in a headlock. Tommy actually looks a bit more cheerful, like he's glad to have been given an excuse to really show what he can do.

I glance at Smith, who's turned white.

"All right, people," the instructor says, getting up as Tommy releases him. "Did anybody notice something special about the way your friend fought?"

"He knows karate?" Churchill says.

Both Tommy and I roll our eyes. The instructor points at me, indicating I'm to provide an answer.

"He was holding back," I say. The other guys turn a bit paler and I choose not to expand on the other thing I've noticed, namely that this WAS a team building session after all, designed to get the guys to stop acting like high school bullies, and that as crude as it was, it's actually going to work.

The instructor nods.

* * *

At dinner the same day, Tommy sits by me. He waits for the conversation to get loud around us before kicking my knee with his to get my attention.

"Did you side with me just because you were afraid of me?" he asks in a whisper.

I take a moment to think about it. I definitely didn't want to fight him, so I guess I was afraid, but I don't think that was the only reason. Maybe I'm just trying to rationalize my actions to give myself a more noble motivation than fear, but I honestly feel like everybody ganging up on him just because he's doing better than the rest of us wasn't very fair. I used to be a bully target too, for much the same reasons.

"No," I reply.

He smirks but doesn't say anything else. I get the distinct feeling he got a lot more information out of my answer than I meant to give.

* * *

Notes

If you're wondering why Tommy doesn't want to show off (Future Snake Eyes is right, it's not modesty), it's simply because he was told not to (ninja clans are illegal and so, it just makes good sense not to let outsiders know you and your family are ninjas if you can help it). And yes, he did enjoy being ordered to do his best, because then, not hiding his skills wasn't his fault anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

This one starts on the morning after the first one, but no peeking inside the head of He Who Will Eventually Be Known as Snake Eyes this time. Sorry.

* * *

**Mini Story 2: Of Milk and Bets**

"You've been frowning non stop since yesterday, buddy. Let it go," Churchill advised, eyeing the muffins and craning his neck to try and see further up the line whether there were pancakes today.

Smith, in front of him in the line, grunted.

"You'd think he would have warned us," he growled. "Hypocrisy, that's what that is. He was just waiting for hand-to-hand to sucker punch us. And sucker kick us. And sucker throw us around."

He let out a string of descriptive curses meant to apply to Tommy that earned him a couple of chuckles from the other trainees around them.

"I don't know… it's not like we gave him much of a choice, is it? We all ganged up on him, except Mr. Strong Silent Type... I wonder if he already knew?"

Smith grunted again and frowned at the inside of the drink refrigerator in front of him.

"And why is there always some stupid soy milk in here?" he grumbled. "Who drinks that crap?"

Churchill's eyebrows buried themselves in his hairline. Smith really wasn't the most observant person.

"Are you serious? He does."

Smith gave him a blank stare.

"Tommy," Churchill sighed. "He has a big glass every morning instead of coffee. I've been wondering why YOU never picked on him for that; I should have known you just didn't notice."

Smith rolled his eyes, but his frown was gone: being given new material with which to make fun of their fellow trainee had finally improved his mood.

"Milk, huh? Coffee's too normal for him, is it? Or real milk, for that matter? Let me guess, soy milk's healthier?"

Churchill chuckled.

"For him, definitely: he's lactose intolerant. That's why there's little signs on all the dishes that got dairy in them."

"How do you know that, anyway?" Smith asked.

"I AM specializing in intelligence," Churchill replied, shrugging. "I like finding stuff out."

"Yeah, well, I want to specialize in punching smart ass idiots on health kicks," Smith grumbled, glaring at the bottle of soy milk as though that's what had showed him up in hand-to-hand.

Churchill chuckled.

"Let me know how that works out."

"Will do."

* * *

Smith may not have been particularly observant, but when you push something aside every day to get at the coffee cream behind it, it's hard to miss that the label on the something you're pushing aside changes regularly. He had no idea why the cafeteria couldn't settle on a brand of soy milk, but he did realize that when something is that inconsistent, it's harder to notice when it changes yet again.

Smith was not exactly the smartest soldier you could find, but he was very good at pranks, and he was very good at getting even with people who pissed him off. He crawled out of bed early every day from then on to sneak in the cafeteria, waiting for the soy milk brand to change again. When it did after a few days, he snuck to the bathroom with it and a bottle of regular milk, drained the soy beverage in the toilet, flushed and poured most of the bottle of regular milk in the newly empty bottle. He then sneaked back into the cafeteria, placed both bottles back in the fridge and wiped them down to remove his fingerprints before heading back to bed, grinning.

* * *

Tommy blinked at him and produced the smuggest little smirk Smith had ever seen. Smith smirked right back, looking very much forward to later that day.

"Really?" Tommy asked. "You want to bet that you can defeat me in a one-on-one fight after target practice? Today?" He glanced at his watch. "In about four hours? How do you hope to learn to fight in four hours?"

"You heard me right," Smith snarled. "Are you on? One hundred bucks."

Tommy took a sip of milk to keep himself from laughing. He wasn't supposed to show off, and demonstrating just how little worried he was at the challenge would probably qualify as showing off.

"All right," he said with as straight a face as he could manage. "You're on."

Smith pranced away as though he'd already won and Tommy watched him, puzzled in spite of himself. Upon reflection, Smith's challenge had to be a trick... not that it mattered. Whatever Smith had in store, he was confident he could handle it and if it was dirty enough, he'd just pound the idiot into the ground a bit harder. He finished his milk with a grimace - that new brand had a really unusual taste. He supposed he'd get used to it just in time for the cafeteria to switch again.

* * *

It was about an hour later, in the middle of the marching exercises, that Smith's trick came to light. Tommy's legs gave out when the cramps hit and he collapsed, bent in two and dimly marvelling at the fact he could do that despite his stomach suddenly feeling like it was three times its usual volume.

He heard himself groan just before his breakfast came back up, complete with what he could now guess had been real milk. Maddeningly, his stomach didn't feel any better after emptying itself.

The Drill Sergeant trotted up to him and screamed at him to get out of the ranks if he was sick instead of puking all over the place.

Tommy dragged himself to the side, barely making it off the training area before a new wave of nausea hit and he discovered his stomach hadn't been quite empty after all thanks to more mostly digested food coming back up. The cramps hit again just as he was straightening up.

Smith held back laughing, watching from the corner of his eyes as Tommy staggered as quickly as he could towards the nearest bathroom.

Tommy missed target practice, but showed up right on time for their duel, his skin a light shade of green and walking gingerly, slightly bent and holding his belly.

"No walking out," Smith announced. "I wasn't feeling that great last time we fought, so this is only fair."

Tommy somehow managed to smirk at him and to look as smug as ever.

"Why would I want to back out? This is perfect: even you…" Tommy paused and grimaced, turning a bit greener still. "Even you won't find a way to pretend I had an advantage this time," he finished, acting as though the interruption had not happened.

"Bets should be off," the soldier known as Mr. Strong Silent Type said. "That was cheating, Smith."

Johnson glared at him.

"Stop accusing people, you little snitch," he growled.

The other soldier rolled his eyes and was about to add something when Tommy interrupted.

"Nuh-uh," he said. "The bet's still on: I want my money."

Smith laughed out loud and charged him, blissfully ignorant of the fact that Tommy had been trained all his life under the philosophy that slowing down because you are hurt or sick is just begging to be put out of your misery.

Smith was met with a kick to his stomach that bent him in two until a second kick, to his face this time, straightened him back up and sent him sprawling to the ground. He didn't have time to try and get up before he found himself in a hold unlike any he'd ever even seen before, but that effectively prevented any movement unless he was willing to break one or more of his limbs, and that hurt enough to bring tears to his eyes even without his moving.

"I suggest you yield right away," Tommy said, his voice a bit shaky. "I think I'm going to be sick again."


	3. Chapter 3

The plot bunny for this one was soldiers chatting over Christmas letters from home, on the last night in friendly territory before setting for the enemy territory in LRRP. It would have taken place at the beginning of Tommy and He Who Will Eventually Be Known as Snake Eyes's first tour. I'm not aware of the names of their companions for that tour being given, so I just made them up.

This is another very short one… Sorry.

* * *

**Mini Story 3: Letters**

Sergeant Marsh passed the last letter out to Private Stevenson and, like his men, sat down to read.

Tommy read his own letter fairly quickly. It was nice to receive news from home, but it was business as usual over there and really, there wasn't much for his family to report. He started looking around for whoever else was done with their letter and may want to chat.

The others started reading aloud to each other instead, irritatingly oblivious to the fact that he had nothing to share and wasn't interested in their Christmas stories.

"Guys, listen to this!" Brown called out. "This is what I grew up with. Your father, it's my mom writing, your father purchased an artificial tree this year. It has the lights already on it, too. I couldn't believe how lazy that was, and I was going to buy some Swanson turkey dinners to show him I could be lazy too."

The other men laughed.

"But!" Brown continued reading, "your brother went to get a real tree from the woods and promised to help if I cooked a real dinner, so your father's getting away easy, yet again."

There were a few more chuckles, more polite. Hill read from his letter next, telling everyone that his sister was taking full advantage of her pregnancy by using it as an excuse to 'eat for two', especially the desserts.

A couple more readings later, things died down a bit as everyone re-read their letters privately, savouring the only bit of Holidays they would get.

Tommy shuffled by the only member of his unit who had been in basic training with him. True to his quiet nature, the man had not shared any of his letter.

"Are you really THAT shy, or does your family not celebrate Christmas either?" he asked.

"You mean yours doesn't?" the other man asked, obviously surprised.

"Christmas is more for couples and young children back home," Tommy answered. "My family never does much of anything for it. We're not really into sweets, so we don't even do the cake thing."

"What kind of cake do you have for Christmas in Japan? Fruit cake?"

"Fruit cake… is that the thing with alcohol and dried fruits?"

"Yep."

"Nah. People buy these whipped cream and strawberry things, usually on the 24th. Unless you're a kid or a couple, that's pretty much it for Christmas. Lots of people have fried chicken for some reason – I think KFC had a lot of ads or something. I'm kind of glad to skip it this year, actually. Last year, I had two friends who were both trying to talk me into spending it with them as girlfriend-boyfriend, and it got kind of ugly."

"You're lucky you don't miss it," the other soldier answered. "It didn't seem like a big deal when I left, but…" he trailed off.

"Do you have a big family?" Tommy asked. "Just tell me to mind my own business if you don't want to say, by the way. I'm told I tend to talk too much."

His companion chuckled at the utterly unsurprising confession.

"Just my parents and my sister," he said, smiling.

"How old is she? I'm guessing you're a big brother – you're too serious to be a kid brother."

"We're twins. How about you?"

"I have a huge extended family. Trust me, you do NOT want me to start enumerating. You won't remember any of the names anyway, if you can't even manage Arashikage."

There was no answer and Tommy scrambled for a moment to find another subject. He'd already instructed his companion to tell him to shut up if he wanted to, so he felt quite authorized to continue talking to him until he did just that.

"Why are you always so quiet, anyway?" he asked after a few seconds. "You're smart, so you can't be afraid to sound stupid, can you?"

The soldier took a while to answer. When he did, it was in a would-be off-handed tone, as though the answer was really inconsequential.

"I used to talk too much and irritate everyone, so I just learned to stop."

"Ah, a repenting Chatterbox…" Tommy mused. "Heh. You were the teacher's pet, weren't you? Answering every question ever asked in class, being a complete know-it-all, and the other kids got jealous, picked on you, and you figured they'd like you more if you talked less. So, it became a habit to avoid talking and to always worry about what you do say."

The other soldier's eyes widened before narrowing.

"Mind your own business," he said.

Tommy did a mock salute to show compliance.

"I won't tell anyone, Chatterbox," he said, smiling.

The other soldier groaned but could not quite suppress a smirk.

"You're going to call me that for the rest of our tour, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes. Definitely."


	4. Chapter 4

A bit of fun. This was sent at a time when Tommy was being somewhat irritatingly clueless in the story and I was trying to write something where he's more endearing (to me anyway, which isn't saying much, really).

* * *

**Mini Story 4: Finicky Ninja**

"You have GOT to be kidding me. THAT's dinner?"

Wilkinson turned around to glare at the offending soldier while the others chuckled or laughed out loud. He knew who it was from the accent, but even if he hadn't, it would have been easy enough to identify him.

Tommy was holding the offending ration at arms' length with his nose wrinkled up in disgust.

"Ara…" Wilkinson searched his memory for the rest of the name and how to pronounce it but had to give up for the sake of speed. He settled on rephrasing. "Got something to say about the food, soldier?" he asked, menace obvious in every syllable.

"What food?" the soldier asked. "I'm talking about this," he added, proffering his hot dog. "Fat and additives with a bit of mystery meat, wrapped in white bread to add some refined sugar to the disaster."

Wilkinson narrowed his eyes at him, trying to decide just how much discipline was needed for complaining about the food. He would have settled on telling the kid off if not for the rest of the unit sniggering at the confrontation.

"I think a bit of exercise will improve your appetite. 50 push-ups, and that goes for everyone, since you all find it so funny."

Tommy dropped and started his push-ups, as did the other soldiers, glaring at him all the while. The kid didn't seem to notice.

"Sergeant, we're still in safe territory," he said, still pumping. "Can we walk around?"

Wilkinson nodded, concentrating on counting. The kid was fast despite the fact he was lowering enough for his face to only be a hair's width from the ground, and he didn't even sound out of breath. It was no wonder his PT scores had all been top marks.

"Permission to go for a walk, Sergeant?" he asked, getting up again after finishing his 50th pump. The others were still going, and glaring at him worse than ever.

"Still not hungry?" Wilkinson asked.

"We're clear to hunt 10 different species of animals in the area and fish anything. There are also a lot of edible plants, even some fruits, around. I'm going to go get my dinner."

Three of the other soldiers stifled laughs and paused. Wilkinson glared at them and they quickly went back to their push-ups.

"You're not allowed to use ammo," Wilkinson said. "and whether you catch anything or not, you're not getting this ration back. AND you had better be back in half an hour."

"Can I use a knife?"

"You can't throw it. No arrows, either," he added, eyeing the kid's bow.

"Thank you Sergeant."

He trotted off while the others got up, finished with their push-ups, and started eating.

He came back 20 minutes later and even Wilkinson could do nothing but stare.

"What did you catch those with?" one of the soldiers asked.

"My hands." Tommy answered, setting a pair of scaled, gutted, stuffed and speared fish next to the campfire.

"What's that in them?" another one asked.

"Local vegetables."

"Let me get this straight. You caught and stuffed two fishes, and found some vegetables, in 20 minutes, when the closest river is about that far away from here?" Wilkinson asked.

Tommy smirked.

"I ran really fast?" he tried.

"Did you, now?"

"Oh, alright," Tommy sighed theatrically. "I went to the village, found someone who needed help, offered my services and got these in exchange. I was going to hunt, but catching that runaway pig was easier, faster and it was a good deed. I did find these in the forest, though," he added, taking some fruits out of his pockets.

Some of the other guys started to sniff: the fish was smelling much better than their hot dogs had tasted. Tommy wasn't looking, tending his fish, but he apparently heard the sniffing because he chuckled.

"There's only enough for two," he said apologetically. "You guys can draw, I'm keeping one of the two servings. Fair's fair, I did the work."

"It's your fault we had to do push-ups," one of the soldiers protested.

"You can thank me for contributing to your general health by helping to ensure you get plenty of exercises some other time." Tommy replied. "I'll fight for my share if I have to. Any volunteers?"

"Don't guys. Just… don't," another soldier said, who had been quiet until then.

"Why not?" another asked, getting up, ready to take on his shorter comrade.

The soldier who had advised the others not to fight Tommy rolled his eyes. Tommy laughed.

"It's not wise not to listen when Chatterbox feels what he has to say is important enough to actually say it," he said in a philosophical tone. "And he knows what he's talking about: we were in the same hand-to-hand class."

"He wiped the floor with everyone," the soldier said. "Including the instructor."

"So you do karate?" the soldier who was standing up said.

"Of course: I'm part Japanese, we're all born with a black belt in karate. It creates problems sometimes when it gets tangled up with the umbilical cord," Tommy said in a perfectly serious tone, poking at the fish to test for doneness.

"Come at it, then, smart ass. I'll take you on."

Tommy looked at him, seemingly surprised. He seemed to think for a minute before getting up from the crouch he had been in and facing his opponent.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

The soldier answered by launching at him. He was on the ground and Tommy was crouching next to the fish again too quick for any of the other soldiers to be able to tell exactly what had happened.

"The fish is done," Tommy announced, plucking one of the sticks out of the ground and going to sit by the soldier he'd called Chatterbox.

The soldier who had attacked him got up and glared at him.

"You DO know karate, you filthy liar!"

"One, that particular move is closer to judo," Tommy replied. "Two, I didn't say I didn't do Karate. I've studied a composite of several styles, and some of the things I've learned are indeed also taught in Karate. Three, I am NOT filthy. Now pick a number if you want a shot at winning the second fish. Between 1 and 10."

The young man who Wilkinson now couldn't help thinking of as Chatterbox smirked and called out 6. The others all called out different numbers and Wilkinson shook his head when his turn came. Judging by Chatterbox's smirk and Tommy's smile when he had called it out, the answer was definitely six.

"Winner's Chatterbox," Tommy confirmed, grinning. "But how did you know?" he asked in mock surprise.

"You ALWAYS pick 6." Chatterbox shrugged, not getting up to get his fish. "Try again, that wasn't fair."

"But if you're right, I'll only pick 6 again."

Chatterbox shrugged again, smirking. Wilkinson held back a snort – the conversation had the feel of one that had happened before, several times. Sure enough, after a second round of guessing, this one secured by the Sergeant making Tommy write the winning number down before the soldiers started guessing and making his friend guess last, Chatterbox won again by guessing six again and this time, claimed his prize under the groans of the other three soldiers.

Wilkinson went to sit with the pair and scowled at Tommy.

"Seriously, I don't want to hear you complaining about the food again."

Tommy rolled his eyes.

"I'll keep quiet," he conceded. "But this garbage really doesn't qualify as food and I happen to enjoy being healthy," he added in a whisper.

"You can think what you want, you can hunt and gather all you want when I give you permission, but no more whining. Got it?"

"Yes, Sergeant," Tommy sighed.

* * *

On food: I can't imagine ninjas NOT eating very healthy. They dedicate their lives to making their bodies as efficient as possible and they believe in absolute discipline. Junk food and sweets just don't fit that picture. Storm Shadow tends towards perfectionism and extreme behaviours, so you can guess he'd be no exception, rather the opposite. I didn't use it much in Arashikage, but in bonuses, it turned out to generate or fit in well with a few plot bunnies.

On the soldier who tried to fight to win the fish: Tommy did offer the challenge and it was just a friendly joust… absolutely not a case of a bully soldier, just in case you're insulted for the three possible characters that could have been.


End file.
